


Conquer With Courage

by Vinctia



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: All the good stuff we know and love from the Witcher Universe, Angst and feelings to come, F/M, Lots of bad language, Spoilers for Witcher 2, You're hereby warned, lots of racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 07:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3561905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vinctia/pseuds/Vinctia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Witcher's tale of a half-elf thief, an elven guerilla commander and the people around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From the coals...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which introductions are made and things go bad...

"So, let me get this straight; this Iorveth person is our only trail?" Zir asked, as the small group ventured forward down the road.  
  
Geralt of Rivia, Triss Merigold, Vernon Roche and Zirael "Zir" Farroc. An interesting collection of creatures on the road to Flotsam; a witcher with amnesia, a jealous sorceress, a temperamental Commander of the Blue Stripes and a smart-mouthed half-elf.  
  
Zir had been reluctant to join Geralt when he was dragged off to King Foltest's war. Partly because of the fact her skills were more defined for the cityscape than the battlefield and partly because she knew Triss would be there. And Triss Merigold and Zir just couldn't be in the same room without sparks flying. It was probably mostly due to chemistry, or lack thereof, but Zir suspected that Triss was protective of Geralt. She wasn't much of a sharing person.  
But Zir wasn't even going to try to move in on Geralt. Sure, he was a handsome bastard and she more than happily enjoyed the view whenever he took off his shirt, but she was perfectly fine with just looking. He was a friend and not much else and that suited the half-elf just fine.  
  
When Geralt insisted that her skills would be good on the battlefield as a scout, and insisted that she was the only one who could match him in a drinking contest and that he'd be bored to tears without a proper drinking partner, she gave up and agreed to come along. Despite the presence of Triss. At least she hadn't been bored while she was there; lots of gambling and drinking going on and the boys thought she was just one of them.  
That was mainly due to how cleverly she dressed. She was a smart woman; she knew that half-elf women were treated with less respect than dirt, so she dressed in loose-fitting clothes to hide what little feminine form she had and covered her ears with a bandana, which also kept her longish reddish hair out of her eyes. No one who didn't know her personally was any the wiser.  
It was a trick she had picked up many years earlier, and one she used every day to disguise herself in the streets. It reduced the risk of getting mugged or raped greatly. And not only that, but her little theatric landed her a job with Thaler as one of his 'rats'.  
  
"Yes, he is. The Kingslayer was last heard of in this area and the forest belongs to Iorveth," Roche answered with a grunt. He clearly didn't like this particular elf.... well, he didn't like Zir either, but that was for a whole other reason. Ever since the two of them had met, they just couldn't get out of each other's way. Insults and threats had been shot from one end of the ship to the other the whole way there. Apparently the reason to Roche's annoyance was Zir's elven lineage and Zir's bone with Vernon lay with his racism and 'mildly' shallow view of the world.  
  
"Sounds like you don't like him that much, Roche. Personal vendetta? Did he set your house on fire, or overturned the outhouse you were sitting in? The latter would certainly explain the smell," Zir grinned at the sour glare he turned to her.  
  
"Shut your trap, rat. You know nothing of what's between me and Iorveth," he growled at the thief. Zir frowned at the nickname.  
  
"If I'm a rat, you're a cockroach," she added as payback.  
  
The otherwise stern and level-headed Commander spluttered out an angry insult, ready to backhand her a few across the face, hard enough to make her see stars for a week.  
  
"One more word from you, half-bred bitch, and I'll personally hang you in the gallows!"  
  
"I'd like to see you try!"  
  
Geralt stopped in his tracks for a moment, listening.  
  
"Do you hear that?"  
  
The soft tunes of a wooden flute were carried through the wind and to them. Both Roche and Zir stopped insulting one another for a moment and listened to the soothing tunes from up ahead.  
  
"I smell an elf!" he growled and went forward, his and Zir's fight forgotten for the moment as determination took over.  
  
Unlike Roche, Zir liked the soft tunes which danced through the air to her pointed ears. She came quickly to the same conclusion as Roche; only an elf could caress a flute like that to bring out a melody so hauntingly beautiful and so... mournful. It was hard to hear, but she could recognize the slight melancholy that laced the tunes. It struck home in her heart and filled her with sadness and pity. Pity for whoever was playing and the things that had happened to make the piper caress such a sad melody out of the instrument.  
  
Zir quickly followed the rest of them as they made their way towards the elf with the flute. The first thing that greeted their eyes was a shadowed figure sitting atop a toppled tree that leaned over the dirt path. Roche growled at the sight, which easily told Zir that this was the infamous forest fox Iorveth.  
As they neared the figure, she couldn't help but find the elf intriguing already.  
He was dressed in the forest's colours beneath his leather armour. Across his chest hung a belt with several emblems on it... emblems of Special Forces. Nearly every single force was there, except for the Blue Stripes.  
Trophies, she figured. Trophies taken from the men sent out to hunt down the brigand.  
  
But what truly caught her attention was his face and the red bandana covering half of it. A scar. A deep scar, she decided, was beneath that. Whatever had happened must have left a deep scar there since she could see a bit of warped skin at the edge of the bandana on his right cheek.  
But the other half of his face was handsome. Stern, cold, distrusting but handsome. Beautiful, like any other elf she had seen. It was another race thing, another thing to set apart humans and elves. The sweet tunes floated from the wooden flute in his gloved hands and Zir was quite impressed by the fact he could caress the flute like he did while wearing heavy leather gloves. Now, that was just showing off.  
  
"That's-" Roche began, however the elf stood on the log and cut him off.  
  
"Vernon Roche! Special Forces Commander for the last four years. Servant of the Temarian King. Responsible for the pacification of the Mahakam foothills. Hunter of elves, murderer of women and children," he mocked him, holding out his hands in a mockingly grandiose way as he spoke.  
  
"Twice decorated for valour on the field of battle..." he applauded, adding to the mocking of the Commander who was starting to turn red-faced.  
  
"Iorveth- a regular son of a whore!" he pointed at him as the insult rolled off his tongue.  
  
"I've long awaited our meeting. Laid plans, set traps... And now you appear in my forest of your own volition," Iorveth seemed rather gleeful at the appearance of his arch-nemesis in his forest, and he hadn't even lifted a finger to make it happen.  
  
"You aided the man who slew my king!" Roche spat at him, his blood beginning to boil in his veins.  
  
"King or beggar; what's the difference? One dh'oine less," although the elf didn't smile, Zir could hear the wide smirk in his voice. She was beginning to like this guy. Although he was a human-hating bastard, there was that desire for freedom within him, that fire that would never die down but never be satisfied. She had seen it before in another Scoia'tael leader.  
  
Now Geralt spoke up from his spot among the travellers.  
  
"Since when do the Scoia'tael hire professional killers to do their dirty work? A dh'oine, even. You've fallen low..."  
  
"A hired killer, true. But in all certainty, he is no dh'oine," Iorveth countered with a sly tongue.  
  
"Don't make a big deal of the race thing..." Geralt threw at him, trying to spur him on.  
  
"Yet race is the very reason we fight! We have pointed ears, yours are rounded. We are few, yet long-lived, your kind multiplies like vermin, though thankfully expires quickly... Humans and elves alike, trying to prove one shape is better than the other. Four hundred years of killing over the mold of the auricle."  
  
Among the insults and spitting hatred, Zir saw a bit of truth in his words. Indeed; humans and elves had been killing each other for the mere shape of their eyes and ears. Innocent blood had been spilled because of this, and more innocent blood would be spilled in the future. It was a shame, a waste of life and resource.  
  
"The kingslayer's among you. We've come for him," Geralt changed the subject, going back to the reason they were there.  
  
"Then our interests collide... The kingslayer is under my protection and I'll not hand over a guest," Iorveth crossed his arms over his chest, underlining his words with a firm gaze.  
  
"You're just another old elf in a young elf's skin, using clever words to mask an obvious truth. This is not about race or freedom. Or even vengeance. You're here because someone powerful told you to be. Someone who's using you. They may wear a crown, carry a magic wand, or even lead a guild..." Iorveth's eye began to fill with a boiling and dangerous anger at Geralt's words.  
  
"But be sure of this: it's not about your freedom, your rights, or your ears. Nilfgaard ploughed you once, now someone new does. Am I wrong?" Zir nearly cringed at the dangerous assumption Geralt handed out. This couldn't end well. The elven leader, however, stood stock still with the cold glare in his eye upon the group.  
  
In the brief silence that follow, Zir noticed a sound in the shrubs nearby. Her ears picked up a wheezing breath. Seems like Iorveth had back-up and one of them was either ill or on fizztech. Poor sod, in either case.  
  
"Those times are gone... No one will ever use the Scoia'tael again," Iorveth answered firmly, wanting it to be known that he was no puppet. Not any more. And he would never be again.  
  
"Who are you addressing? Me, yourself... or the archers in those shrubs?" And Geralt had noticed them too.  
  
"Enough of this piss! Die!" Roche roared with anger and drew a knife. He prepared to pin Iorveth to the log with it, preferably through his cold, black heart.  
However, Zir tackled him the moment the knife left his hand, making it fly in a lazy arch and miss Iorveth by a hair's breadth as said Scoia'tael leader moved to the side and away from the line of fire.  
A mere fraction of a second later, three arrows imbedded themselves in the soil where Roche had just stood, shot by expert archers from the undergrowth.  
  
"Spar'le!" Iorveth called and dashed across the log to safety near the shrubs, where his archers stood by with loaded bows.  
  

 


	2. ...and into the fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things go from bad to worse...

Zirael had heard the tell-tale singing of arrows sailing through the air and knew where they were headed. She had dashed forward and tackled Roche out of their line just in time, as the arrows buried themselves into the ground two inches deep. Roche would've been a pin-cushion had she not intervened and from that day on she wondered why she had saved him, instead of just letting him be speared like a boar.  
  
"Get off of me!" Roche swore oaths and thrashed around beneath the woman. She moved off of him with a glare.  
  
"Well, you're _welcome_..." she sneered and brushed dirt off of herself briefly, before drawing her dagger and trusty knife, both cleverly hidden underneath her loose-fitting clothes, to defend herself. Roche scrambled up from the ground and drew his own sword.  
Geralt had already drawn his sword and taken a defensive stance in front of Triss to shield her.  
  
"I hope you know some magics against arrows, Triss, otherwise we'll all end up like butterflies stuck to a board," Zir said with a little bit of worry in her voice, giving the sorceress a side-glance for a moment. The half-elf was flexible and fast but she doubted she could dodge all the arrows entirely.  
  
"Butterflies..." Triss mumbled, raising her hands to begin a spell. Zir thought she questioned if she had heard her words right.  
  
"Yes, bleedin' butterflies. You know, the little flapping creatures you see in Sprin-" she was cut short as a wave of magic swept through the air and lifted an orange-tinted shield around them, shaped like a dome. The very next second arrows flew through the air and struck the shield, only to be... turned into little orange butterflies?  
The half-elf blinked a few times, watching the little things flap around. Roche seemed to be just as surprised, lowering his sword with a both confused and amused look on his face. The archers in the shrubs looked even more dumbfounded than the two of them put together.  
  
"... Show-off," Zir mumbled and turned to Triss only to find her in Geralt's arms, having collapsed from the strain of magic. The shield was still up, thankfully. Roche turned as well as he noticed Zir's sudden silence.  
  
"Arh, shit," he hurriedly put away his sword and went to Triss's side, before picking her up and hoisting her over his shoulder. "Triss is spent, so no more butterflies. Let's get the fuck out of here."  
  
Zir went in front of them inside the shield to guard that part, while Geralt went behind them to fend off elves charging at them.  
  
"Back to the boat?" Geralt questioned, walking backwards after Roche as he steered further down the road and away from the ship.  
  
"There's even more of them that way. We must fight our way toward Flotsam." Just as Vernon had stated that, the Scoia'tael came rushing at them, most of them from the rear, running straight into Geralt's merciless sword. A couple of them came from the front, giving the illusion that the group was surrounded. However, it seemed the elves hadn't expected the lithe half-elf to be a challenge or they had less training than one might think, or they were simply fooled by her disguise, for they fell rather easily to Zir's dagger and knife.  
She got a fist to the face and a sword knicked her across the belly, slicing into her already patched up and worn-out shirt as well as the battered leather armour beneath it. She winced at the pain that followed, knowing if that cut had been an inch further in, her guts would be hanging out at that moment. She answered with a kick to the groin and her knife thrust into the elf's thigh, leaving him screaming in pain before she hit him over the head with the pommel of her dagger to shut him up.  
  
"Is that you, Roche? Get your hands off my ass!" Triss was conscious again, apparently.  
  
"Who did you think it was?" Roche grinned as he stepped over a downed elf, walking with a brisk stride towards Flotsam.  
  
"I'm not a sack of flour or one of your commandos. I'm a woman!"  
  
"I noticed..."  
"We noticed..."  
  
Roche and Zir, respectively, said at the same time, one with a voice of amusement and the other of irritation.  
  
"Ugh, I'm gonna be sick..." Triss groaned, barely able to move as she was carried like a sack of potatoes, her head swinging from side to side with every step. Zir knew how it was like to be flung over a shoulder and carried like that, and she understood just how sickening it could make your stomach. She almost felt sorry for her. Almost.  
  
"At least I'll die holding a lovely arse," Roche squeezed said arse he was holding lightly as he moved out of the way of a sword from an elf behind him, who was quickly downed by a witcher's sword through the throat. Zir gave a snicker. At least she praised herself lucky that she wasn't the one slung over a shoulder and groped on. Again. She'd rather dodge swords and risk getting more scars for her collection.  
  
"Not mine! I'll hold the spell," Triss objected, sounding rather light-headed and exhausted. No wonder. From what little Zir knew about magic, that spell was quite the feat. Even she had to admit she was impressed.  
Another well-placed fist to the face, and the next few moments all Zir heard was ringing. She answered back with a knee to the groin and a dagger to the shoulder before leaning shortly against the rock-face they were following, trying to regain her balance and stop the dizziness. She shook her head a few times, blinking to make the world stop turning around and that's around the time she noticed the barrier was waning.  
  
"Triss?...Triss?!" Roche kept walking, though increased the length of his stride the best he could.  
  
"Be quick!" Their sorceress didn't sound particularly happy or comfortable. Her control was running out and they were quickly running out of time.  
  
Finally, Flotsam was in sight and the guards sounded the alarm of approaching Scoia'tael. Roche gently put Triss down again, once they were sure that there were no more Scoia'tael running at them. She wobbled and clutched to him for support, her face pale as a corpse's.  
  
"You're okay, Triss?" Zir asked. Even if the half-elf didn't like Triss all that much, she still didn't want to see her topple over and die from a magic-overdose. The sorceress nodded vaguely, regaining her balance and standing sorta straight again. Zir's left ear was still ringing, making her a little unbalanced as well. One helluva punch that bastard had packed.  
  
"You all in one piece? Who're you?" A guard from the trading post walked up to the little band of people. Geralt turned his attention back to what was in front of him, after having looked at the hill behind them where two figures had stood a moment earlier.  
  
"I'm a witcher," he answered with his usual gruff and neutral voice, convincing the guard immediately. How he could do that was a mystery to Zir, even if she desperately begged Geralt to teach her how to do that. He never did.  
  
"Emhyr var Emreis, spice merchant," Vernon told him smoothly, after straightening out his coat as though he was a really wealthy nobleman. Zir nearly choked on a suppressed giggle. For once, he had shown a bit of humour.  
  
"A trader?" The guard didn't look particularly convinced, but he apparently didn't know who Emhyr was. Ignorance at its best. With such intelligence, it would hopefully be a piece of cake for the half-elf to keep her gender and race concealed.  
  
"In spices."  
  
"Uh-huh... and the lad and the woman?" Yep. Piece of cake.  
  
"My good man, we barely escaped death... Be so kind as to tell us where we might get some rest. We'll explain everything later," Triss told him with a tired and slightly annoyed voice, answering for both of them.  
  
"Very well. Head for the market square. You might be in time for the execution... Some ne'er-do-wells are going to hang- a dwarf and a bard. There's also an Inn and a brothel..."  
  
"Oh yeah, the brothel sounds especially interesting. Take care, now."  
  
So far, so good. All of them breathed a sigh of relief for various different reasons.  
  
"... Too many spells at once... You can die from that," Triss was still out of breath from their fight, her face white as a sheet. Zir decided to keep her smart remark to herself, as a sort of repayment for making the guard shut up and not ask too many questions. She looked down at the wound she had suffered from the fight. The wound itself was rather superficial, but the state her clothes were in now made her frown. She'd need another patch for that but for now she readjusted the worn leather beneath and the shirt itself, so the holes would seem a little less obvious at first glance.  
  
"So... where will we be heading first? A place to rest or the so-called 'entertainment' of the day?" Zir asked as the four of them began walking onto the streets and away from the grassy road.  
  
"Both. The inn is in the marketplace, as are the gallows. Follow me," Vernon answered and began heading towards their destination. Both Zir and Geralt picked up the comments by the various townsfolk, many of them speaking of the Scoia'tael attack but also blatantly asking if they were going to the hanging. As if it was the newest play in a theatre. Zir would never get used to that, no matter how many times she encountered it.  
  
"Spices?...pfft, bloody likely..."  
  
"-right, see you at the hanging then."  
  
"-three non-humans and one of them is a bard! I heard the bard was rather cowardly when they dragged him up there-"  
  
"-are those people? Scoia'tael spies?"  
  
"No, survivors from the attack..."  
  
The half-elf didn't like this already. She thought it better to lay low and keep hidden. These people were more distrustful than the citizens in Vizima and that's saying a lot.  
As they neared the marketplace and the gallows, the four companions froze in place as they recognized the faces of those destined to hang.  
  
"Zoltan... Dandelion...!"  
 

 


	3. Same play, different stage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which four people are destined to hang.

Right there on the scaffold stood two elves, a bard and a dwarf. And the last two were very well-known to the troupe.  
  
"My informer..." Roach mumbled, a slight annoyance to his voice as he looked in the direction of Dandelion. Triss mumbled something and rubbed the bridge of her nose.  
  
"... why doesn't that surprise me?" Zir asked in a hushed tone, now looking at Geralt.  
  
"Any bright ideas?"  
  
"We improvise," was his answer as he began to walk towards the scaffolding. Vernon stopped him shortly with a warning.  
  
"No killing..."  
  
Geralt nodded once and continued his route towards his friends.  
  
"... this is definitely going to end well..." Zir mumbled mostly to herself and moved to stand at the edge of the crowd to the side. Just to still be in the action but at a safe distance... for now. At least she had perfect access to the scaffold and Geralt, in case anything would go wrong... and while she was there, she couldn't help but notice the sound of clinking coins in front of her.  
That clinking oddly stopped a few moments later and Zir was suddenly a little bit richer.  
  
"Geralt! Geralt! Over here! Help!" Dandelion spotted his white-haired friend and called out, desperate not to lose his head to the noose.  
  
"Step back, white one," the guard held up a hand to stop him from going any further.  
  
"What are they going to hang for? They don't look dangerous," Geralt countered, questioning the judgement of whoever put them there.  
  
"The charge is: Collusion with Scoia'tael," the guard explained, crossing his arms.  
  
"Dandelion -an elven spy?"  
  
"The bard's hanging for debauchery." Zir lost her jaw at this point. If they hung people for debauchery, it was a miracle that Dandelion hadn't been sentenced to hang before now.  
  
"What?!" Even Geralt was as shocked as her.  
  
"The sentence was he's going to hang for debauchery," the guard confirmed with a nod.  
  
"And a sentence is nothing to scoff at!" some random guy in the crowd chimed in, trying to justify the obvious stupidity of this hanging.  
  
For a moment, Zir's vision turned black and everything sounded as though she was under water. When she could finally see more than blurred images again, she was leaning against a nearby wall and the discussion about letting Dandelion and Zoltan go was getting heated.  
The half-elf figured the punch she got earlier during the scuffle with the Scioa'tael must've rattled her brain quite a bit. She just hoped she wouldn't pass out or vomit.  
With a shake of her head she righted herself and her senses again, and saw the guard take a swing at Geralt.  
  
Ah, now for the improvisation part.  
  
Vernon joined the fray and kept one of the other guards busy and Zir thought she might just as well. You know, to keep things easy for the witcher. One guard raised his hand behind Geralt to strike. Before he could do so, however, Zir tapped his shoulder and the man turned around only to be met by a sharp punch that send his jaw rattling.  
  
She heard a distinctive noise that made the hairs at back of her neck stand on end and looked up at the scaffold, fearing to see either Dandelion or Zoltan dangling at the end of a rope. Instead, it was the female elf, her neck broken from the fall. The executioner looked really proud of himself, clapping and encouraging the crowd as he did. However, his smug smirk was wiped off his face when Geralt came flying up the stairs and smacked him one over the head.  
She had never seen the woman before, yet shouldn't help the feeling of pity and sadness as she saw her dangle there. Between punches with the guard in front of her, she locked eyes with the male elf and she saw nothing but fear and desperation. He was fearing for his life and Zir could do nothing but avoid the next punch.  
  
Their little get-together with the guards was soon interrupted by one of the most unpleasant people Zir had seen in a while. A fat, bald bastard with a most unpleasant and uncomfortable aura surrounding him. For a few moments, the half-elf felt like vomiting. Though, it could've just been from the punch she had suffered.  
  
"What the hell is going on here?!" he demanded, and when he didn't get an immediate answer, he repeated: "I said, what the arse fuck is going on?!"  
  
One of the guards, who had suspiciously not joined the fight against Geralt, Vernon and Zir, stepped up, looking mighty nervous.  
  
"I-I-I'd like to re-re-report..." he stammered.  
  
"Ou-ou-ou-ou-out of my sight, Clover! A few ploughing bandits and you can't even hang them!" the bald guy, obviously the leader of the local militia, mocked and walked past the guard who dutifully moved out of the way. The other guards who weren't eating dirt for the moment, backed off as well to lick their wounds.  
  
Such a nice, eloquent man. The half-elf already disliked him more than Vernon.  
  
"And you! Stay calm, hands off your sword," he addressed the witcher who merely crossed his arms and looked very unimpressed.  
  
"Our scaffold embraces speeches and hangings. Which will it be?"  
  
"Are you in command here?" Geralt asked, still not looking too impressed by the other man.  
  
"Forgive me! Bernard Loredo, Commander of Port Flotsam. Yes, I rule this brothel..." he answered with a leer. No, Zir definitely did not like this bastard one bit. The arrogance was suffocating around him and she ever so slightly backed a bit further away to get some fresh air.  
  
"You have no right to hang them," Geralt argued. Loredo joined him up on the scaffold, walking with a slow pace that reminded Zir of an approaching bear. She didn't doubt for one second that the fat bastard could move fairly quickly. She'd rather overestimate him than underestimate him.  
  
"Interesting... because I'm the law in Flotsam," he answered and she could see him grinning, even from the distance she was away.  
  
"I take issue with that," Vernon suddenly joined the discussion, walking closer to the scaffold, "Vernon Roche, officer of the King."  
  
"Well, well... Blue Stripes, the nonhuman hunters," Loredo looked at him, mild amusement in his voice.  
  
"Precisely. Anyone suspected of collaborating with the Scoia'tael falls under my jurisdiction," and just like that, Zoltan was more or less free. Sort of, anyway.  
  
"And Dandelion? What's he accused of?" Geralt asked.  
  
"He burned down a watchtower. What's your jurisdiction say to that?" Loredo grinned widely at the following silence. Funny, Zir thought she heard the guard from before say that he was to be hanged for debauchery...  
  
"Is that true?" Geralt turned to Dandelion.  
  
"It might've looked that way... But I swear it wasn't my fault!" Dandelion defended himself and Zir couldn't help but shake her head at that with a sigh. Right, it never was his fault.  
  
"I'd rather give you a thief," Loredo said, looking at the elven man standing next to Zoltan. The poor man was shivering like a leaf in a storm, even Zir could see that from where she stood. Then Loredo grinned.  
  
"Relax, I'm joking..." he said and kicked the switch next to the man. The trapdoor released and Zir looked away as the man was hanged and the crowd cheered, seeing more of the death they had come to see in the first place. "I hate thieves."  
  
Zir swallowed and decided it was a good idea to be very careful from now on...  
  
A few more moments of hushed talk between Geralt and Loredo went by, before Loredo turned to face the populace with a message:  
  
"Listen here. You may have heard rumour of the tragic events that transpired during the siege of La Valette Castle. Sadly, they are true. King Foltest is dead," a murmur of anger and shock went through the masses but he continued.  
   
"It's likely that Scoia'tael had a hand in this heinous murder. So, you see, none of you can feel safe," another angry murmur, this time she picked up several racial slurs and several people cursing Iorveth's name.  
  
"That is why today, wagons with armaments will roll out into Flotsam's streets. I hereby declare a state of emergency. Await orders, prepare to fight, and ready yourselves to avenge your fallen king. Now disperse, go to your homes," and disperse they did. But the atmosphere was disconcerting. A storm was brewing and it reminded Zir too much of what had happened in Vizima. She just hoped this wouldn't end in flames.  
  
She missed the rest of the conversation in the murmur of the leaving townsfolk, but since Geralt was removing the nooses around his friends' necks, she figured it went well. With a knife, their bonds were cut and soon the three of them joined the rest of the group.  
  
"Ah. They were really going to hang us. I... I... I don't know... I didn't mean to torch that watchtower," Dandelion was shivering like he was naked in a snowstorm, obviously quit shaken up from the whole ordeal.  
  
"Everything's all right, Dandelion," Zir chimed in, patting him on the back with a consoling smile. "Let's get the two of you out of here."  
  
"Oh we owe, we owe you, Geralt. Thank you," Zoltan said, a bit shaken as well from it all.  
  
"Time to hit the tavern. Come on, Dandelion, you need a stiff drink. And while we're at it, I'll tell you an edifying tale of local hypocrisy that conceals lechery 'neath a veneer of courtesy. Except nothing can hide the stench."  
 

 


End file.
